


No Romance Except Remorse

by Alice88wa



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angry Sex, Dirty Talk, Fucked Up Love, Incest, Knot Language, M/M, Nori's Dad is a Bastard, Pre-Canon, Seriously Brain What The Fuck, Why Brain Why, dub-con, ricest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:45:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alice88wa/pseuds/Alice88wa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His brother only comes to him in the night. It's easier that way, their faces hidden, shuddering together with mutual loathing and hunger. Dori can pretend they're different people with different lives, far from here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Romance Except Remorse

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I don't really know what's up with this. I wrote it all in a frenzy in one night, pretty much, except for a little cleaning here and there. I'm working on a Nori-heavy story and this just... popped into my head. So, enjoy the hate-fuck-fest that is Dori and Nori's relationship!
> 
> For reals, this shit is abusive and messy and incestuous! If ANY of those words make you uncomfortable, TURN AROUND.

His brother only comes to him in the night. It's easier that way, their faces hidden, shuddering together with mutual loathing and hunger. Dori can pretend they're different people with different lives, far from here. Two lovers, perhaps, playing at being strangers. Or maybe they are actually strangers, finding escape in anonymous hands. When his curtains open and a warm, tense body tucks alongside him, Dori can close his eyes and imagine he is only shaking with desire. When familiar, petting fingers trace his outline, unlacing, tugging, he tells himself it's excitement that makes him feel ill. He doesn't know if Nori pretends. He doesn't want to know.

It begins in their usual way, what might laughably be called routine. Walking through the market or lingering to meet Ori after his lessons, anywhere in public, Dori will be pricked by the sudden awareness of being _seen_. Again and again the feeling will come of something pacing just out of sight, as he looks into shop windows or pauses for a moment outside his front door. In a crowd, he might feel the ghost of fingertips brush his hand, his ear, a soft white braid. It makes his skin crawl and he knows, even though it's been almost two years and he ordered Nori to stay away and they've _moved_ since the last time, Dori knows he will come again tonight. Everywhere he goes, his brother is there; a shadow plucking at his nightshirt, sighing wicked devotions into his ear, uncalled for but called forth by their shared sickness.

When the sun fades at last behind the blue ridges, his will slowly erodes as denial turns to resignation turns to morbid anticipation. When it is just barely late enough to be plausible, Dori carefully, firmly puts his brother to bed. He has to be discreet, these days. Ori is getting old enough to start asking difficult questions and clever, so very clever. Dori can only delay the inevitable, wrapping him up in scarves and mittens, tucking him in with a pat, imposing an rigid distance between them and the _other_ brother. Ori's confusion is heartbreaking but necessary. 

In his own room Dori ignores the badly-turned angles of the furniture, forced out of place by his bed - adamantly squeezed under the lone narrow window. He insists on moving frequently, without warning, and still, perversely, finds himself sleeping under a window in every new home, a silent concession to tradition. Every night he unlocks, locks and unlocks it again. It hardly matters; Nori will find a way in whether he is welcome or not. Dori can only slip into worn nightclothes, take shelter under his blanket and wait for the mindless breath of need to drift across his mouth. 

 

Occasionally their love is slow and aching, reviving faded memories of a red-haired little boy, Ori's double, shy and sweet, who ran to Dori with his first clumsy knotted ribbons, explaining their meanings with stumbling, artless enthusiasm. He tries not to remember that child, always smiling, an early casualty of his sire’s temper. Dori failed his brother, ash and bone, he knows he failed. He gathers Nori up in his arms and hold him like the much-adored thing he was in youth, before he grew into their mother's heartbreak. In the darkness they laze together for hours, savoring the furtive, unraveling slide of kin against kin, lips against lips, saying nothing. There is nothing to say. These moments are too lovely and too rare, sustained inside a frail skin of tension that any careless word might rip. 

More often, though, his brother comes down on him like a coiled whip, flaying with terrible anger, clawing open the heart of him with words and blows and, once, the quick deft tip of his knife. On those nights Nori is undeniably his father; teasing affection that turns cold in a flash, blending casual violence with a tender caress.

In their incestuous bed Nori hisses that he's growing tired of Dori, his whitening hair, his soft belly. Maybe next time he will creep into the bedroom down the hall instead. Why not? He hardly knew the lad, after all, at Dori’s insistence. They were barely half-brothers and he was just _so_ eager to please and wouldn't Dori like to see that? Lovely little Ori writhing with naive ecstasy around his brother's iron, such a sweet boy, so innocent, unspoiled. Perhaps they should take him together, like a _family_ …

Dori could have stopped this if he really wanted, couldn’t he? Dori, the strong brother, the _good_ brother. He could have swatted Nori like a fly, struck him down and rid the family of this stain, this depravity. But he didn’t, did he? Not once in all these long years. He must want this, then, to present himself so greedily the moment Nori’s shadow crosses his bed. He chooses to be nothing more than a _thing_ , a hole for his brother’s spending, squirming and moaning to shame a Slagstreet whore.

Do their relatives still tut over Nori, the disappointment of the clan, Dori’s familial burden? Does Dori still shake his head and say he cannot guess where it all went wrong? If only they knew how prettily he submitted, how easily he spread for Nori’s length. He ought to cut Dori's braids off so he can no longer hide what he is, wouldn't that be a sight? Dori wouldn't even fight it, would he, because he knows what he is. Underneath his perfumes and airs, this is all he really amounts to; a slick tunnel, made to be fucked, worthless and mine, mine, _mine_.

The litany of perversion goes on and on, only making Dori push back more ardently. His mouth trips over half-prayers, _hate you_ slides into _more, please, more_. When Nori’s tongue is spent, when he tires of laving Dori’s flesh with venom, he lays in with teeth and hands. He is never sated, raking, biting until his lips are smeared with salt and copper. Dori never goes undressed, hasn't for decades, since the first morning he woke up to a lattice of seeping, straight lines and blunt, curved welts. Dori succumbs to his defilement, praying each time that, somehow, the alchemy of pain will transform their devotion into something less profane and tomorrow they will wake up whole and clean, free from the past. But always Nori comes again, after months or years, to bleed out the infection one more time, just one more time, this is the last time...

And then, every once in a great while, Nori will fold under his brother, unresisting, letting himself be taken while he weeps and weeps and weeps.

Those nights terrify Dori beyond all others; not in the face of Nori’s yawning emptiness but in the intensity of his own desire. It is a privilege, a gift, an awful glimpse of Nori’s true face - not the rogue, not the child, not the father, but _Nori_ , broken and afraid. Dori tries to go slowly, to bring them both into pleasure with long, temperate strokes. It's the least he can do, if he cannot stop, at least he can be courteous and selfless. This only seems to crush Nori further, kindness piling on kindness until the dam is breached and a profound spasm rocks his body, the first pebble quivering before a landslide of sobs. It inflames him, Dori loses himself, feeling the jerking clench of his brother’s passage as misery convulses his frame. He pounds into the gripping heat with a fury, desperate for the intimacy of one more choking, reverent sob...

In the morning his bed will be empty, the pillow cradling a delicate work of knotted art. It is the same pattern, always the same pattern, twisted endlessly around flowers, clutching a spray of lavender, weaving through a length of red hair. 

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry_


End file.
